


the sea's evaporating

by halfmoonsevenstars



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-01
Updated: 2012-11-01
Packaged: 2017-11-17 13:36:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/552122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfmoonsevenstars/pseuds/halfmoonsevenstars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brad might be dead, but he isn't gone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the sea's evaporating

At first, Ray’s convinced that he needs an eye exam, because he keeps seeing weird floaty shit in the corners of his eyes. He’d read somewhere, probably on Web MD when he’d thought he had schistosomiasis, that seeing floaty shit is a bad thing. It means your retinas are detaching. And frankly, the last thing Ray needs in his life is for his retina to detach, although he thinks that the resulting eyepatch would be pretty fucking sweet. It’d come in handy for Halloween, at least. He could be a pirate, or a ninja with really bad luck. 

But then he Googles it a little more, and realizes that they aren’t just little floaty things. For one thing, what he sees isn’t all nebulous and irregularly-shaped. What he sees, he comes to realize after about a month or so, is _Brad_ -shaped. That’s when Ray decides he’s got to be certifiable, or at least due some really heavy-duty meds courtesy of the VA, wonderful institution that it is. Screw therapy, let’s throw a prescription at you and hope it works, see you again in six months when it runs out! Hey, it’s all in his head, right? Eyes, brain, fucked-up psyche. It’s the same shit. He _wants_ to see Brad so fucking badly that he can’t stop seeing him.

Except for the part where it doesn’t happen everywhere. Or, more accurately, it doesn’t happen in places where he and Brad hadn’t gone together. So logically, Ray _can’t_ be seeing Brad everywhere—or, at least, the word “everywhere” is a gross exaggeration. But then, Ray’s always been kind of prone to embellishments. What story is good enough on its own? Aside from that time they all went on libo together in Sydney. Ray still can’t believe, six years later, that he _hadn’t_ made up the thing with the tequila and the midget hookers and the Persian rug. Mostly, they’re only sort-of-good, and then, only to the people who were there – or to the people who have excellent imaginations. And most people don’t have the kind of imagination required. Or the sense of humor, for that matter.

Ray’s decision is to basically just ignore it. As his mom had said after the fourth day in a row of Ray not bathing or brushing his teeth or changing his clothes, life moves on; it doesn’t stop for you, and you’ll miss everything good that’s left in the world. At the time, he’d only been able to mumble a hazy “yeah” while thinking that it was the stupidest fucking thing Ray had ever heard come out of her mouth, which was surprising, because his mom usually said shit that made sense.  It wasn’t until later on, after she’d gone back home to Missouri, that Ray discovered how right she actually was about that.

It didn’t come as a sudden thunderclap of understanding – after all, this isn’t the movies, where you get some big goddamned epiphany – but as a trickle into his consciousness, slowly eroding away the hyperawareness that Brad wasn’t there anymore. One night as he was brushing his teeth before bed, Ray realized that he hadn’t thought about Brad at all that day, not once—not even when that dumb Scorpions song had come on the radio while he was driving to the supermarket.

He’d cried for a solid fucking hour, hanging onto the sink because if he hadn’t, Ray would have just dropped to the floor like a pile of bricks. He never noticed the passing of a warm breeze down his spine. And even if he had, Ray would just have attributed it to an open window.

It wasn’t.

Ray starts going longer and longer stretches without thinking of Brad. Sometimes he loses track of how long they are, and it’s always fucking godawful when he finally remembers, because Ray had sworn to himself the day of the funeral that he would never spend one day not thinking about Brad, that Brad wouldn’t wind up living only in old photos and that copy of the video Lilley made in OIF.

The funeral had been bad enough, all shiny closed casket and crisply folded American flags and gun salutes and some rabbi who hadn’t even known him rambling on about what a hero he’d been. Ray thinks, to this day, that Brad would probably have hated every second of it, mostly because his parents had ignored his wishes to have “Home Sweet Home” played while they lowered the casket into the hole. He’d tried to tell Mr. and Mrs. Colbert that Brad had wanted that, even tried to tell the funeral director, but nobody would listen. He figured out later that he’d basically been invited to sit in on the funeral plans as a courtesy and nothing more. Ray had played it about ten times in a row when he’d gotten home that night, plastered to the gills on cheap bourbon courtesy of one Nate Fick, who’d taken it upon himself to keep dragging Ray into the bathroom of the restaurant where they were holding the reception and feed him shots.

It’s worse, somehow, that Ray’s last memory of Brad – alive, that is, not that they’d let him or anyone else see Brad when he came home – is so fucking _mundane_ that he can barely hang on to it no matter how hard he tries. It had just been, basically, Brad in his utilities eating breakfast so fast it practically seemed to Ray that an anteater was sucking it off the plate instead of a human being, then kissing him hard before running out the door with all his gear, calling a rushed “LoveyouseeyouwhenIgethomeI’llemailwhenweland” over his shoulder. Brad always managed to run late for pretty much everything, Ray remembers. The only other thing that he really remembers from that day is that Brad had tasted like maple syrup from the pancakes he’d wolfed down. Ray hasn’t much liked pancakes since.

Ray’s decision to ignore whatever weirdness is going on with his head doesn’t work so well, especially when he discovers that Brad’s favorite sweatshirt, the beat-up old hoodie stained with motor oil, doesn’t smell like Brad anymore. In a way, he’s not surprised, because Ray’s been wearing it so often that it’s almost a given. But he’s still depressed as fuck, because it was the only thing that he had left of Brad’s. Mrs. Colbert and Ray’s mom had eventually made him go through all Brad’s clothing and give it away to Goodwill. Originally it had been the Salvation Army, but Ray’d fought them tooth and nail; no way was Brad’s stuff going to a bunch of militant fundamentalist douchebags, fuck them and their red kettles too.

He winds up slumped on the living room floor, leaning against the sofa because he can’t bring himself to drag himself upright to sit on it, the hoodie clenched in his arms like some kind of security blanket. All the while Ray’s thinking, _Get a grip, you fucking lunatic_ , which is the most logical thing he could be thinking at this moment, but of course what Ray Person thinks and what he feels don’t converge a whole hell of a lot. All he can do is try to recall what it was like to have his arms around the man who used to fill in the sweatshirt he’s holding. Eventually he just falls asleep there, and wakes up the next day with a horrible crick in his neck.

Needless to say, logic does _not_ prevail when Ray starts talking out loud to Brad. It begins innocently enough, as most things often do, when Ray comes home after a shitty day and accidentally flings the front door open so hard that it puts a hole in the wall.

“Fucking _Christ!_ ” Ray screeches. “Goddamn it, Brad, where’s the fucking spackle? Like I need another fucking home improvement proj—“ He stops talking as abruptly as he’d started, only his mouth doesn’t slam shut right away; his jaw just hangs open for a few seconds until Ray has the uncomfortable feeling he looks like Cletus the slack-jawed yokel.

If he didn’t know better, he’d swear later that he’d heard Brad laughing at him for being such a fucktard. But of course it wasn’t Brad. It was a trick of the wind, naturally. What he can’t explain is the sudden scent of Irish Spring soap, that cheap green shit Brad used because it was always in the Sunday newspaper coupons.

So Ray isn’t totally sure why he starts saying “Hey, I’m home,” every time he comes into the house, even if he’d only been gone for a couple of hours. He couldn’t explain it even if he wanted to—not that Ray would ever tell anyone about it. They’d have him thrown in the closest nuthouse faster than he could shotgun a Keystone. It just… _feels_ like something he should do. As if it’s only polite.

He thinks he ought to be worried when “Hey, I’m home” turns into full-blown conversations with the empty air, but rationalizes it by keeping tabs on whether or not he gets an answer. That’s when you know for a fact that you are stone-cold motherfucking crazy, if you get a voice talking back at you. Since he doesn’t, Ray keeps on talking. It’s not like, an all-the-time sort of thing for him. But in the evenings, while he’s making dinner – always something boring and easy these days, since there’s no fun in cooking, really, when it’s just for yourself, and it’s not like Ray ever gets dinner guests anyway – he’ll chat about how his day went, or stuff he heard on the news on the drive home, or just whatever’s on his mind. It doesn’t really matter that nobody’s listening. It’s just his way of keeping Brad at the forefront of his mind. They’d always talk like this while Ray cooked.

And every so often, he turns around from the cutting board, knife in hand, because he’s just caught the scent of the cool ocean breeze wafting by and doesn’t recall having left the window open. It never is; it’s always shut tight the way he’d left it that morning. But Ray can only rationalize and explain away and justify all these strange little happenings for so long. Eventually, after about a year or so, he starts actively wondering what the fuck is going on.

A few months after _that_ , Ray begins to look for it. He’s selective, though, about when and where he tries to take notice, of what’s worth keeping track of and what’s just pure coincidence. He doesn’t lower himself to do any research, though; Brad would have made fun of him for a million years if he’d ever caught Ray on some ghost-hunting website. _Ray, what’s this quasi-religious mumbo-jumbo horseshit, you think you’re being haunted by Dale Earnhardt, you bucktoothed hillbilly fuckrag?_   So Ray does without. It’s a lot harder than it seems, trying to separate reality from his admittedly prodigious imagination. Not everything can be a message or a sign, even though he really wants it to be. Not that Ray would dare admit it to anyone. But he’s a Marine, and Marines make do.

It’s beyond disappointing when he doesn’t hear anything, or see a Brad-shaped figure out of the corner of his eye, or smell that awful soap, or feel a random breeze, for a week or two. When that happens, he starts thinking that maybe it really _is_ just all in his head, and then something happens. Once it’s his pimpin’ Elvis sunglasses folded up neatly on top of the dresser when Ray is positive that he’d left them tossed on the kitchen table. Another time, he wakes up to hear “Mandy” playing on his CD player, and when he goes to check it, there’s no Barry Manilow CD in the changer. There isn’t _anything_ in the changer. And more than once he’s walked into a room that he hadn’t been in all day, only to find a lamp switched on. It’s stuff like this that makes Ray think that maybe he’s not a nutjob. Or, if he is, at least he’s doing a spectacular job at compartmentalizing it.

One night, Ray fuzzes awake, unsure as to why – he isn’t thirsty, doesn’t need a piss, hadn’t heard any weird noises. It takes him a few seconds to clear his head, during which time he comes to realize that someone is sitting on his bed. The only reason he doesn’t bolt upright immediately and lunge for his KA-BAR is because the person sitting on his bed might have a gun or a chainsaw or an RPG or something, against which a mere knife would be useless. Maybe pretending he’s still asleep is the better option, he thinks, considering how heavy the weight on the mattress feels. Has to be a tall motherfucker, probably with big linebacker shoulders.

And it is, until he’s almost startled into rolling right the fuck out of bed by hearing Brad’s voice distinctly say, “Relax, it’s just me.”

Ray isn’t sure whether he should be terrified, relieved, or devastated. Finally, he opts for Plan D, which is to go completely rigid and squeeze his eyes shut.

“Ray, come on.”

“This isn’t happening,” he mutters, trying to will himself awake.

“Of course it’s happening.” There’s no mistaking that faintly amused tone—it’s the one that Ray always knew meant Brad was a millisecond away from laughing at him.

“How can I be sure?” Ray doesn’t want to open his eyes, doesn’t want to spoil the whole illusion by looking over to his right, the side of the bed where Brad used to sleep, and seeing nothing there.

“You can’t, I guess.”  Ray imagines Brad shrugging.

They’re both quiet for a while.

Ray’s the one to break the silence by asking, “If I open my eyes, what am I gonna see?”

“Whatever you think you’re gonna see.”

Ray doesn’t know what he’s going to see, if he opens his eyes. He only knows what he _doesn’t_ want to see – the Brad in the shiny mahogany coffin. They’d said his face had been…well, they hadn’t actually said what happened to Brad, but Ray knows. If Brad’s face hadn’t gotten fucked up, they’d have had an open-casket viewing. Anyone with half a fucking brain knows what an IED can do when it hits a Humvee.

“Don’t think about that,” Brad says suddenly.

“I can’t help it,” Ray answers, hating that his voice has gotten clogged and thick all of a sudden. “It’s the only thing that’s in my head now.”

“But don’t.  It won’t help. I can’t make myself look a certain way to you. I’m…not strong enough for that.”

Ray laughs, but it comes out sounding weird and foghorny. “Now I _know_ I’m dreaming this shit up. You’d never say something like that.”

“You get a different perspective on shit when you’re dead. Come on. Please. Look at me, Ray. I can’t keep this up for much longer. Just…think of something good. Think of, shit, I don’t know, anything.”

It’s the pleading note in Brad’s voice that gives Ray pause. It means that this is real, and that this is serious. So he concentrates really hard and thinks about Brad coming in the back door after a morning swim, his hair already half-dried by the sun and tracking sand everywhere no matter how many times Ray told him to take off his goddamn flip-flops before entering the house.

When he opens his eyes, there’s Brad sitting on the bed in a pair of board shorts and faded t-shirt, and Ray’s breath catches; he has to fight back the urge to reach out and touch Brad out of fear that it’ll cause him to disappear, like sticking your finger into beer foam. Instead, Ray just stares at him. It’s so much like Brad’s really there, the only difference being that he’s just a little less opaque than a regular live human body. There’s a sudden blurring of his vision, and Ray knows what that’s all about, but he doesn’t want to stop looking at Brad so he just blinks a few times very rapidly to get the tears cleared out of his eyes and sliding down his face. Ray wants to say something, but he doesn’t know what, and he realizes that he couldn’t even if he wanted to because his throat’s closed up.

“I’ve wanted to do this for a long time,” Brad says softly. “But I had to wait until you were ready for it.”

Ray swallows hard, trying to regain control of himself. It only sort of works. “I wish you could stay,” is all he can manage.

“Me too.”

They’re quiet again, this time for a longer stretch.

“What’s it like being dead?” Ray asks finally, and wants to kick himself. What a stupid fucking question.

“It’s okay.” Brad shrugs.

“That’s it?” He’s a little surprised by that, and thankful that his voice has mostly gotten back to normal.

“Some parts of it are good. Like when you come home and talk to me. Or when you notice I’ve moved your shit around. You know, that takes a lot of effort.” Brad says it matter-of-factly, like they’re talking about the fucking weather.

“Don’t you ever leave the house?” Ray wants to know. “I mean, theoretically, you could go like, wherever. Right?”

Brad shrugs again. “Don’t need to. You’re here.”

“You shouldn’t stay just ‘cause I do,” he answers, though a little flicker of warmth—true warmth, not the fake kind that comes out of a bottle—ignites in his chest. It’s the first time he’s felt that since the phone call.

“You’re such a bossy little shit, you know that?” Brad flashes him a grin. The flicker sparks into roaring flame.

“Takes one to know one.” Ray grins back, cracking the dried tears coating his cheeks.

Brad reaches over and puts his hand on Ray’s arm. It’s warm, which Ray hadn’t expected at all, but at the same time it’s weird, because it doesn’t feel like Brad’s hand; it just feels like the sun’s been shining on it for a few minutes. Ray doesn’t care that it’s not like a real hand. He just wants this to keep going, doesn’t ever want it to stop, doesn’t want reality to come crashing back in again.

“I gotta go, Ray.”

Ray’s stomach plummets. “Please don’t.” He’d never begged for anything in his life until Brad died. He’s gotten really good at it since then, what with all the bargaining Kubler-Ross shit, and he’s fully prepared to do it now.

“No, it’s better this way. I’d rather go now rather than fade out in the middle of a conversation. Just, don’t forget I’m around, even when you can’t see me, okay?”

“Of course not.” Weird to be reassuring a ghost, Ray thinks. It’s strange to see Brad looking so worried, and Ray wants to laugh because how could he forget that, now that he knows Brad never left?

“I’ll come again when I can.”

“I know.”

And just like that, the weight on the mattress lifts, and instead of looking at Brad, Ray’s staring at the wall. The tears come again, but they feel different in some way that later, Ray can’t put his finger on. He doesn’t even remember falling back asleep when he wakes up the next morning, but knows he must have, because the last thing he can recall is the clock radio telling him it was 3:21. Ray isn’t at all surprised when he looks over the side of the bed where Brad had been sitting and finds a dusting of white sand on the carpet.

He leaves it there.

But only for a week, at which point he marches into the bedroom with the Dirt Devil and announces, “Brad, I love you, but you’re such a fucking slob,” before vacuuming it up.

Brad’s response is to turn all the framed photographs and prints upside down while Ray’s at work the next day.


End file.
